fall - winter
to me those have always
most beautiful words in the English language.
Welcome to summer, that glorious
time of the year
when most of us can put on our shorts and short-sleeved
and actually feel the air and sunlight on our skin.
When we don't
have to turn up the heat in the morning
when we get up. But also
when we lay hot and sweaty in
bed, unable to sleep at times
(those of us who don't have
air conditioning, anyway), when we
get the sunburn and the heatstroke and all those wonderful things.
how we see it, summer has a magic that we can't deny--
four seasons do. Here's a page devoted to those who have
addressed that magic.
Enjoy the page, and please, enjoy
|Once upon a
time, I know not where,
I know not when. A dream, may be,
Out of a pine wood, unaware,
I stepped upon a quiet lea.
And on the quiet meadow I
Saw all around a carpet spread,
Far as the line where land meets sky,
Of motionless blown poppies red.
And on the blood-red carpet lay,
Regarded of a thousand flowers,
A lovely, tired summer day
In first sleep of the sunset hours.
No breath. No sound. A bird in flight
The air of evening scarce does cleave,
I scarcely see his stretched wings smite,
A black line in the fragrant eve.
Once upon a time, I know not when,
Long, long ago. A dream, may be,
But I can see it now as then,
The silent, purple poppy-sea.
the days go on toward July, the earth becomes dry and all
the flowers begin
to thirst for moisture. Then from
the hillside, some warm, still evening,
the sweet rain-song
of the robin echoes clear, and next day we wake up
dim morning; soft flecks of cloud bar the sun's way,
steal across the sky, the southwest wind
rippling the water into little waves
murmur melodiously as they kiss the shore.
Summer is a prodigal of joy. The
Swarms with delighted insects as I pass,
And crowds of grasshoppers at every stride
Jump out all ways with happiness their guide;
And from my brushing feet moths flit away
In safer places to pursue their play.
In crowds they start. I marvel, well I may,
To see such worlds of insects in the way,
And more to see each thing, however small,
Sharing joy's bounty that belongs to all.
And here I gather, by the world forgot,
Harvests of comfort from their happy mood,
Feeling God's blessing dwells in every spot
And nothing lives but owes him gratitude.
sweltering. . . .Slow down. Or stop. It's time to shed
expectation, along with commutes, clothing, cellular phones,
calendars. Now our wants
seem to diminish. Is it because our needs are met? A shady
nook, a cold drink, a cool
breeze--whether indoors or out. A respite from the rigors of the
day. Time off for good
behavior. Summer is not so much a season as a melody, that tune
of contentment we
hum as the days begin to beautifully blur. The pursuit of
happiness becomes our personal
priority this month, as the sweet strains of . . . Harmony start to be
heard in our hearts.
a sailor in
a rowboat and ice-cream
on your dress
you're four years old. Summer is a man with
between your toes,
the smell of a
Oh, summer is silk itself,
a giant geranium
music from a flute far away!
By June our brook's run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)--
Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat--
A brook to no one but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.
A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.
A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!
The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.
The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.
A porch is the only real reward
you need after a long summer's day.
|Summertime, oh, summertime, pattern of life
the fade-proof lake, the woods unshatterable,
with the sweet fern and the juniper forever
and ever. . .
Oh, how beautiful is
the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless,
unclouded, day, descending upon earth with dews and
refreshing coolness! How beautiful the
long mild twilight, which,
like a silver clasp, unites
today with yesterday!
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How green and bright they are! How still they lie!
The summer fields out-stretching in the sun:
An emerald glory, sharp as any cry,
Dipping beneath the racing winds that run
Across the summer day on swift light feet,
To silver the little leaning, laughing grass,
To gild the tossing beads of ripening wheat.
Here is peace to store within the breast
Against the days of tumult and despair.
Within this cool green light the heart can rest,
The body strengthens in the clear clean air,
The soul grows tall, the viol-string tensions cease
Here in this summer stillness, summer peace.
Grace Noll Crowell
green and fair the summer lies,
Just budded from the bud of spring,
With tender blue of wistful skies,
And winds that softly sing.
do I want to take home from my summer vacation? Time.
The wonderful luxury of being at rest. The days
shut down the mental machinery that keeps life
and let life simply wander. The days when you
analyzing, thinking and just are. Summer is my period of grace.
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the
grass on a
summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the
clouds float across the sky, is hardly a waste of time.
summer is when laziness finds respectability.
summer, the song sings itself.
William Carlos Williams
perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing,
the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken.
makes a silence after spring.
the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and
the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A
few of those
days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with
Ada Louise Huxtable
is a temperate zone in the mind, between luxurious indolence
and exacting work; and it is to this region, just between laziness
and labor, that summer reading belongs.
Henry Ward Beecher
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|I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the
My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music.
It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.